“Michael,” she said, closing her laptop. “What can I do for you?”

  Harris entered and stood before her desk. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m no longer comfortable with the off-book project you assigned me.”

  “Oh?” Nagel took off her glasses and motioned for him to sit. “What’s the problem?”

  Harris cleared his throat and took a seat. “As I’ve reported, ma’am, Sasha Vesna is a naive young woman who was horribly mistreated as a child and is simply doing the best she can to live a normal life. There’s nothing more for me to learn. At this point, I just feel that continuing to lie to her is, well…morally wrong.” He had not allowed their relationship to become overly physical, but Harris still felt Sasha’s heart opening to him.

  “I see,” Nagel said. “For a moment, I thought you were going to say dangerous. I hope you know if it were dangerous, I’d pull you out immediately.”

  Harris believed her. Nagel ran this embassy with an iron hand, but she also cared loyally for her staff. “No, ma’am,” he assured her, “I don’t see any danger. The problem is that Sasha is becoming attached. Ethically, it feels…”

  “Dishonest?” The ambassador looked almost amused. “I must say, Michael, I find it ironic that you would cite morality as the reason you want to quit seeing Sasha.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  The ambassador stood up and walked to the wet bar in the corner of her office. Without a word, she poured a tumbler of Vincentka mineral water and returned, handing it to him. Then she sat behind her desk, raising her eyes to his.

  “My suspicion,” she said, “is that the real reason you want to stop seeing Sasha Vesna is because you’re afraid my PR liaison, Ms. Daněk, will catch you spending time with another woman.”

  Harris tried to maintain a poker face, but he could feel himself crumbling. The ambassador knows I’m seeing Dana?! Any moral high ground Harris had hoped to occupy just evaporated.

  “I hope you’re aware,” Nagel said, “that this embassy has a zero-tolerance policy on interemployee relationships.” She paused, as if suddenly recalling. “Oh, of course, you’re aware of the policy…You helped draft it.”

  Shit.

  “Relax,” Nagel said calmly, “I’m not looking to have you fired. I’m simply exploiting a weakness in service to my country.”

  “That’s quite a euphemism for ‘coercion,’ ” he managed.

  “You’re an attorney, Michael, so just think of it as effective negotiating. And believe me, I would not be applying this kind of pressure if my superiors weren’t applying that same pressure to me.”

  “With respect, ma’am, I find it hard to believe our president cares about a Russian epileptic with two cats named Harry and Sally.”

  “First off, the White House is not the only powerful entity to whom I answer. Secondly, my superiors have not told me precisely what their interest is in Sasha Vesna, only that they want to be apprised of what secrets she is telling those people she trusts.”

  “Sasha has no secrets!” Harris insisted. “She’s an open book, and she’s just happy to have someone to talk to.”

  “Exactly. And you have now established yourself in that position, which is very valuable. You need to keep her talking. In the meantime, I’ll ignore your situation with Dana, and I’ll tell my superiors to pay you twice what they’re already paying you for this special project.”

  Harris was stunned. His additional financial compensation was already exceedingly generous. Who is so eager to keep tabs on Sasha Vesna? And why?

  “And Michael,” she said, “if this project ever feels even slightly dangerous, you tell me, and I pull the plug.” She locked eyes with him. “Deal?”

  Harris gazed down at her outstretched hand, stunned by how effortlessly she had reached checkmate. Despite his gut reservations, he suspected that if he himself didn’t do this, someone else might take more drastic measures. Sasha doesn’t deserve that. He shook the ambassador’s hand.

  In the weeks that followed, Harris’s relationship with Sasha naturally progressed to an awkward physical romance. Fortunately, Sasha was extremely inexperienced, and Harris insisted they take things incredibly slowly. So far, the most intimacy they had shared was lying in each other’s arms in her bed, mostly clothed, watching old American romantic comedies until they both fell asleep.

  Now, as Harris raced north to meet with Sasha and Langdon, he reflected on everything he had learned this morning from the ambassador. The scope of the operation going on in Prague was beyond his wildest imagination. Even without specifics, Harris knew he was in miles over his head.

  It’s time to get out.

  As he neared Old Town, Harris made himself a solemn vow.

  No matter the repercussions, this will be my last visit with Sasha Vesna…ever.

  CHAPTER 43

  Robert Langdon paced anxiously around Sasha Vesna’s small kitchen, his soaking-wet socks leaving footprints on her tile floor.

  This can’t be happening.

  He stared again at the slip of paper that had appeared moments earlier under Sasha’s door.

  The handwritten note had jarred his world from its axis.

  I have Katherine.

  Come to Petřín Tower.

  His mind raced with agonizing questions.

  Who are you? What have you done with her? Why Petřín Tower?

  Prague’s two-hundred-foot Petřín Tower was not far from the city’s center, situated atop a heavily wooded hill. The forest’s storied history of virgin sacrifices did little to calm his nerves.

  Langdon could imagine no possible motive for anyone abducting Katherine Solomon. Come to Petřín Tower…why?

  “We must have been followed here,” Sasha said, sounding frightened. “Maybe from the taxi stand? Maybe this is ÚZSI, but—”

  “Why the hell would ÚZSI kidnap Katherine?!”

  “I don’t know.” Sasha looked distraught. “Michael will know what to—”

  “I can’t wait for Michael,” Langdon interrupted, hurrying up the hallway to find his shoes. “I’ve got to go right now.” Katherine is in danger. I need to get there as soon as possible. As he slid his wet socks into his loafers, Sasha opened the hall closet and reached for her coat.

  “No, Sasha,” he interjected, “the best thing you can do is to stay here, meet with Michael, have him take you to the U.S. embassy, and tell them everything you know. Everything. Including what happened with Brigita, the ÚZSI agent, this note, my going to Petřín Tower, everything.”

  Langdon had already witnessed Sasha’s spontaneous capacity for abrupt violence, and he could not afford to show up at Petřín Tower accompanied by a wild card.

  “Okay,” she said, reaching into her handbag, “but if you’re going alone, at least take this.” She pulled out Pavel’s weapon.

  Langdon recoiled instinctively. He had always been unnerved by weapons and knew enough about confrontation not to add a gun to the mix if not necessary. He had no desire to carry a stolen ÚZSI weapon through the streets of Prague, especially as he had no way to transport it except tucked into the waist of his pants, a technique that, every time he saw it in the movies, seemed an insane risk.

  “I’d feel better if you kept it,” he said. “Obviously, whoever left that note knows where you live. Hide it in a kitchen cupboard…and if you desperately need it, you’ll know where it is.”

  Sasha thought for a moment and then nodded. “Okay, but this you should take.” She walked to a hook on the wall and removed a plastic key ring with a single key. “My spare key. If you and Katherine need a safe place to go or hide, come here. I don’t know what Michael will suggest we do, so we might not be here when you come, but at least you’ll have a way in.”

  “Thank you,” Langdon said, doubting he would be back. Nonetheless, he accepted her generosity, noting that her key ring was a plastic cutout of a spread-eagle cat, with the words “Krazy Kitten.” He slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll find a phone and call you as soon as I know what’s happening.”

  “You’ll need my number.”

  “I have Michael’s cell.”

  She looked surprised. “He gave you his private line?”

  “I saw you dial it in the car,” Langdon said.

  “And you remember it?”

  “Weird brain,” Langdon said. “I don’t forget things.”

  “That must be nice,” she said. “I have the opposite problem. I can’t remember things. Memories get muddled…lots of blanks.”

  “From the epilepsy?”

  “Yes, but Brigita was working with me on that…”

  Langdon gave a comforting smile. “It sounds like Dr. Gessner was very good to you.”

  “She saved my life.” Sasha looked melancholy. “I hope I don’t forget her too.”

  “You won’t,” Langdon assured her, reaching for the door. “And trust me, remembering everything is not always a blessing.”

  CHAPTER 44

  From the moment Jonas Faukman had been thrown into this van, he had tried to manage his fear with a feigned flippancy, but it was becoming difficult to maintain in the face of the foreboding sense that he was about to be abducted to Prague. The roaring jet engine nearby, combined with losing all feeling in his hands, left him on the verge of panic.

  “I’ll tell the pilots we’re ready,” Buzzcut said to his partner. “Then we’ll load him up.” He opened the slider and stepped out, leaving the door wide open as he departed, apparently to punish Faukman for his insolence.

  “It’s freezing…” Faukman said to the other man.

  No reply.

  The whine of jets was much louder now, and Faukman finally had a view of his surroundings. The van was parked on a wooded service road of some sort, behind a white building that was no more than a couple of hundred yards away. Faukman had imagined he was on a secret air base about to board a military transport, but the illuminated marquis on the building told a much different story.

  SIGNATURE AVIATION / TETERBORO

  Holy shit. I’m in Jersey?!

  Signature was a popular private jet terminal at New Jersey’s Teterboro Airport. Only twenty minutes from Manhattan, the luxurious FBO was a hub for wealthy Manhattanites to jump onto their private planes bound for business trips or secluded vacation homes on the slopes of Aspen or the beaches of West Palm.

  For an instant, Faukman felt relief that he was not on a military base, but then, as the truth started to settle, he wondered if this might be even worse. At least the military had certain protocols, and Faukman was a U.S. civilian. If these thugs were actually mercenaries working for a rich, international whoever-the-hell-it was, there were no rules of engagement.

  They could fly me out of the country…and nobody would even know I was gone!

  As a fresh blast of winter wind swirled through the van, the guy in front set down his laptop and climbed back between the seats, then pulled the slider shut. “You’re right, buddy, it’s cold.”

  The man had softer features than Buzzcut, of mixed Asian descent, and like his partner, he had a clean-cut military air about him. “How are the hands?” he asked.

  “Honestly, if this goes on much longer, I think I may lose them.”

  “Let me have a look.” The man maneuvered in behind Faukman and examined his hands. “Yeah. That’s not good.” He pulled out an army knife. “Just stay still. I’m going to cut you free and attach a slightly looser tie, okay?”

  Faukman nodded, his thoughts still spinning over what he had just seen outside.

  “No stupid stunts and don’t screw around with me,” the man said. “Remember, I’m the one holding a knife.”

  “Got it.”

  An instant later, Faukman’s hands were free. He gingerly maneuvered his arms back in front of him and wiggled his fingers to coax the blood to flow again.

  The man behind him circled back around and sat on the crate, knife at the ready.

  “I’ll give you sixty seconds,” he said.

  “Thanks.” Faukman grimaced as excruciating needles of sensation returned to his wrists and fingers.

  “Sorry about my partner,” the man said. “Auger can be a bit…intense.”

  “The appropriate literary term is ‘douchebag,’ ” Faukman replied.

  The man laughed out loud.

  The two sat in silence as Faukman continued to massage his hands. His toes felt frozen as well; the running sneakers he had put on when he left his office weren’t exactly insulated.

  “Do you want to put your coat back on,” the man asked, “before I put a fresh tie on your wrists?”

  Faukman eyed his coat on the floor. Hell yes!

  Half-standing and half-crouching, Faukman awkwardly slid his aching arms into his coat and savored the warmth. He tried to fasten the buttons, but his partially thawed fingers refused. “Little help?” he said, looking to his captor, who was sitting on the milk crate with his knife.

  The man shook his head. “And set down my weapon? Sorry, buddy. I don’t trust you.”

  “I think you greatly overestimate my potential for heroics,” Faukman said, wrapping the coat around him as best as he could, pleased to feel his cell phone in the pocket, right where he had left it.

  “Okay,” the man said. “Let’s get you secured again.”

  “Can you just give me one more minute? My hands are killing me.”

  “Now,” the man commanded. “Turn around.”

  Faukman complied, turning 180 degrees and facing backward in the van. As he did, he found himself with a clear view out the window in the van’s rear door. Through it, he could see the Signature Aviation building. He could also see the parking lot, where a single SUV was idling, its exhaust billowing into the cold morning air. The SUV’s driver’s door was open, but the seat was empty, the driver most likely inside the small terminal.

  “I’ll leave it loose for now,” the man said, retying Faukman’s wrists. “But we’ll have to tighten it up when my partner gets back.”

  “Thanks.”

  The man finished tying his hands, and Faukman twisted his wrists slightly, surprised to find the restraints so loose that he could probably slip right out of them.

  “Be right back—nature calls,” the man said, exiting the van through the side door and sliding it closed again. Faukman turned around and watched through the windshield as the man passed in front of the van, stepped a few yards into the woods, and unbuckled his belt.

  Then he began urinating against a tree.

  Having edited all of Langdon’s books on symbols, signs, and hidden meanings, Faukman had no doubt how the professor would categorize this moment.

  A heraldic sign.

  Faukman would call it something a bit less poetic.

  My last fucking chance.

  Attempting to escape men with guns was borderline crazy…but not as crazy as letting them abduct him to a foreign country without a fight. Worst-case scenario, they would catch him again and throw him onto the plane.

  Through the windshield, Faukman could see the man was still peeing.

  Once you start, it’s hard to stop.

  And until you stop, it’s hard to run.

  Faukman made up his mind in an instant, grateful for the countless hours he’d spent running in Central Park. If they try to shoot…I’ll be a moving target. He quickly wriggled his hands out of the tie and double-checked that the man was not watching.

  Here we go…

  He grabbed the handle to the van’s rear door, depressed it, and quietly swung the door open. Then he crouched down and leaped out. The instant his feet touched down on solid earth, he exploded into a full sprint down the access road, forcing past the pain in his cramped legs. He was an experienced runner, and his legs responded effortlessly to the sudden exertion. His wool coat billowed behind him as he picked up speed and set his sights on the idling SUV in the distance.

  Faukman glanced over his shoulder and saw his abductor awkwardly zipping up and trying to give chase. No chance, he thought, feeling the wind in his face.

  The man in pursuit was yelling as Faukman approached the SUV. A gunshot rang out, and a bullet whizzed over Faukman’s head.

  Holy shit!

  Faukman reached the idling SUV, hurled himself into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and muscled the vehicle into gear. He crushed the accelerator to the floor and the SUV peeled out, tires screeching as it bounced up and over the median, fishtailing out of the parking lot onto Industrial Avenue.

  As Faukman sped off, leaving Signature Aviation and his captors behind, he grabbed his phone from his coat pocket, held it up to his face, and shouted, “Hey, Siri! Call Robert Langdon!”

  A hundred yards away, the operative named Chinburg stopped running, finished zipping up his fly, and calmly watched the SUV disappear into the night. Once the vehicle was out of sight, he walked back to the van.

  “All clear,” he announced.

  His partner with the buzz cut, Auger, stepped out of hiding. “Phone?”

  “All good. He took it.”

  “Nice job.”

  Despite their captive’s extensive experience editing suspense novels, the man had just fallen for the most basic interrogation ploy of all—the Fugitive.

  Threaten someone’s life and he’ll always do the inevitable if you give him the chance—run.

  There was no plane waiting, no flight to Prague. They had simply parked their van on an access road adjacent to Teterboro’s Signature Aviation services, called in a third operative to pose as a chauffeur, and then created the illusion of a perfect escape moment.

  Faukman took the bait…and his escape car has a tracking device.

  Sometimes, before letting a fugitive escape, they would plant a surveillance bug on the quarry, but in Faukman’s case, there was no need; he was already carrying a powerful two-way transceiver with GPS—his own smartphone.

  While Faukman had been blindfolded, the operatives had quietly removed his phone from his coat, plugged it into the laptop, bypassed his passcode, and uploaded a variety of proprietary software before replacing the phone in his pocket.